


Sometimes They Come Back

by asenath_waite



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, Guilt, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Post-Canon, Rare Pair, Regrets, Reincarnation, Sauron returns, Silmaril returns, Sort Of, WIP, like super rare, past sauron/celebrimbor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23550202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asenath_waite/pseuds/asenath_waite
Summary: The being once known as Sauron has dragged himself back into corporeality after millennia of shadowhood, but he is no longer what he was, and when one of the lost Silmarils is found by humans, he must choose between new and old loyalties. Set in the same verse as Portrait.I wouldn't normally post a WIP, but maybe quarantine and guilt will push me to finally finish it?
Relationships: Beren Erchamion/Lúthien Tinúviel, Radagast/Sauron
Comments: 26
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

_Mysterious Jewel Found In Shipwreck_

_A team of underwater archaeologists made a remarkable find while excavating the wreck of a World War II German U-Boat last week._

_“It looks like a big glowing opal, but it’s not. We have no idea what it is,” one archaeologist told reporters._

_Further analysis has revealed that the unknown mineral is slightly radioactive and harder than diamond. Unsubstantiated reports suggest it causes burns when handled._

_The stone will be on display in -- University’s Natural History Museum until the end of the month._

Maglor stared numbly at the screen. _It can’t be,_ he thought. _I threw it into an ocean that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s been at least eighteen thousand years. It can’t be._

He gathered up the last of his busking income and trudged through the rain to the Museum anyway. He hurried past dinosaur skeletons and walls of marine fossils towards the Minerals exhibit, where the “diamond opal” reposed on a pedestal in its own room, surrounded by a security railing and numerous warning signs. A faint smell of Telperion’s flowers permeated the still air, and shadows quavered in the corners as though afraid of the holy light.

His long-dormant oath stirred and sank its claws into his heart. There could be no doubt. Here was his father’s Silmaril, _his_ Silmaril, displayed like a curiosity for degenerate Secondborns to gawk at.

He drifted closer and saw that he was not alone. A short man in a long black coat stood next to him, staring raptly at the jewel. Maglor ignored him and hoped he would go away.

“I forgot how beautiful they are,” the stranger whispered. “I can almost understand why He did what He did for them, though I have yet to forgive Him for it.”

Maglor looked down at the stranger’s hands where they gripped the security railing. His right index finger was missing.

“Hello, Thauron,” Maglor said softly.

“Don’t call me that," the creature hissed. "I hate that name.”

“You earned it,” Maglor replied. “Do you honestly expect me to call you, what was it you went by in Númenor, ‘Tar-Mairon’?”

“Thranduil does. In the most insulting way possible, of course.” Thauron's voice was low and hoarse, as though his throat somehow remembered Huan's bite.

“He’s still around?" Maglor asked. "I thought I was the only Quendi left in Middle-earth.”

“He calls himself Thomas O'Rourke these days."

"Thomas O'Rourke the billionaire is Thranduil Oropherion? Truly?" Maglor couldn't reconcile the reclusive woodland king with the flamboyant billionaire conservationist…although those persistent rumors about O'Rourke hunting poachers for sport suddenly became much more credible.

"The very same," Thauron said. "Don’t call on him unless you want to go home the fast way.”

“He’s forgiven you, but he’ll kill me? That hardly seems fair.”

“Forgiven me? You can’t be serious. He just thinks the world is safer if he knows where I am. But as for you, surely you remember how you and your brothers slaughtered his relatives and burned his childhood home? A bit worse than attracting a few shadows to his forest, don’t you think?”

“You have no right to judge me, monster!” Maglor snarled. “How much blood is on your hands? You would have burned the world if the Periannath hadn’t stopped you!”

“I most certainly would not. I intended to rule Arda, not destroy it.” Thauron sounded genuinely offended.

“And you think we’d all be better off with you in charge?" Maglor asked. "At least the trains would run on time?”

Thauron shrugged. “I doubt I could fuck up as badly as Men if I tried. And yes, my trains would have been unfailingly punctual.”

Maglor unclenched his fists and tried to breathe more evenly. The satisfaction of beating Thauron to a pulp was not worth the risk of being arrested without ID. “It’s ‘would have been’, not ‘will be’, is it?” he asked. “So no more dreams of world domination for you? Morgoth must be so disappointed.”

Thauron sighed. “Even at the height of my power I was no more than a shadow of Him, and I am far less now. As you can see.”

Maglor turned and looked fully at him.

He was so...small. The top of his head barely reached Maglor's chest, and his coat draped limply over his thin shoulders. A black cane hung from the railing between his hands. His face was drawn and pinched, almost skeletal, and his sunken yellow eyes held no fire. Thin wisps of grey hair stuck out from underneath the black scarf wrapped around his head and neck. He looked old and tired and sick.

Maglor shoved down an unwelcome rush of pity. “Olórin said most of your eäla was destroyed with your ring and you would never be able to take physical form again.”

“And yet here I am.”

“What happened?” Maglor demanded. “How did you come back _again?”_

Thauron shrugged. “Time heals all wounds, as the Secondborns say.”

“We both know that’s a lie."

“It’s as much truth as I’m going to give you." Thauron picked up his cane and turned to leave, then looked back at Maglor with a horrible leer on his gaunt face. "But take heart, Kanafinwë Makalaurë! Your sojourn as the world's saddest beach hobo might be over. They'll be coming for your treasure soon." He winked and hobbled out, leaning heavily on his cane.

Maglor could have sworn that a few of the cowering shadows slid across the floor and vanished under the creature's coat. But Thauron in his current condition was even less of a threat than most Secondborns, and not worth worrying about. Maglor needed to take back the Silmaril before the Valar learned of its reappearance. Nothing else mattered. Maybe it would burn him again--his hand throbbed--but this time he would be prepared. _Welding gloves,_ he thought. _I'll play at the swanky farmers' market tomorrow; that should get me enough money. Then I'll come for it._

Mairon sagged against the wall as soon as he was out of Maglor's sight. His head spun and his heart pounded, but at least he had walked out of the room without embarrassing himself. The last son of Fëanor would probably be staring at the horrible jewel for hours to come; Mairon could afford a few minutes to recover. He closed his eyes and listened to the comforting chitters of the shadows under his coat until he felt strong enough to move. His fána was deteriorating fast and he desperately needed rest, but he had to tell Thranduil about the Silmaril. No one wanted a repeat of the First Age wars with modern weapons.

Driving to the king-turned-capitalist's nearest estate would take all night if he was lucky, and the longer he waited, the weaker he became. At least there was a place on Thranduil's land where he could rest.

Mairon took a deep breath and walked out of the museum.


	2. Chapter 2

“The God-King of the East graces me with his presence! Tell me, Tar-Mairon the Most Amazing, to what do I owe this honor?” Thranduil settled himself behind his massive Art Nouveau desk and smirked his most infuriating smirk at Mairon. Thin winter sunlight sparkled on his silver three-piece suit and lit his flawless golden hair.

Mairon sighed. “I’ve been sitting in your office for three hours, Thranduil. You’re gracing me with your presence.”

Thranduil waved one elegant hand dismissively, flashing his many platinum and diamond rings. “My question stands. Why are you here, O Admirable One?”

“The Secondborns dragged Maglor Fëanorion’s Silmaril out of the ocean.”

“Fuck.” Thranduil leaned forward over his desk, grace and mockery both discarded. “Does he know? He’s still wandering around weeping on the shores, isn’t he?”

“Yes and yes. Or, weeping in the University Museum, when I left him. He may have tried to steal the thing by now.” _And I may have encouraged him,_ Mairon thought, _but you don't need to know that._

“If he hasn’t yet, he’ll try soon. Fuck." Thranduil thumped his fist on the arm of his chair. "I’m going to have to notify Aman. You might want to make yourself scarce -- or do they even care about you anymore?”

“Not enough to send anyone after me. I'm hardly a Silmaril.”

“Mmm, they’ve always been more important than you, haven’t they?”

Mairon couldn’t suppress a flash of genuine hurt.

Thranduil smirked. “Too soon?”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish. Now tell me everything you know about our shiny little problem.”

"I already did," Mairon said. "I told you where it is, and I told you he knows about it. It's your shiny little problem now." He stood up and hurried out of Thranduil's office.


	3. Chapter 3

Mairon parked his ancient car in the gravel parking lot by the trailhead and sat for a moment staring at the forest. Rage burned in his chest, but he couldn’t even pound his fists on the steering wheel without risking a broken bone. In his current condition, Thranduil might as well be Manwë.

_I’ve gone from dreaded Dark Lord to decrepit vagrant,_ he thought. _They would laugh, if they noticed._

_You did this to yourself,_ a familiar memory whispered, its voice distorted by missing teeth and a broken jaw. _You can undo it. You can choose a different fate._

“I couldn’t,” he said to the grey sky and the looming trees. “He wouldn’t let me. I’m sorry.” He’d never told Tyelpë about the bonds Melkor left on him, never explained why hoping for his redemption was futile. Not that it would have made a difference.

_I forgive you._

At least he could slam the car door. He quickly stripped off his clothes and stuffed them into the trunk with his cane before shifting into wolf form.

Huge trees trapped the forest floor in a perpetual twilight almost as dark as the starlit world of long ago. The air smelled of conifer sap and dark rich earth, overlaid with wisps of animal scents. Mairon twitched his nose at squirrels and turned his ears towards the distant sound of a waterfall. His missing finger made his right front paw lame, but he was in no hurry and could walk as slowly as he needed to. The real wolves of this forest lived far from here.

Aiwendil’s home was more of a bower than a house. Sunlight slanted through the woven branches that served for walls and illuminated the tracks of small animals on the dirt floor. Aiwendil himself wasn’t there, but his sun-warmed-fur scent lingered in the air. Mairon’s wolf-bed in the darkest corner remained just as he had left it. He curled around his aching paw and fell asleep.

He woke to gentle claws scritching him behind the ears.

“Your animal shapes have always been remarkably accurate,” Aiwendil rumbled. "For a moment I thought you a wolf in truth."

_You helped me learn._

“So I did.”

Ancient memories hovered between them for a moment: Yavanna’s woods on Almaren, Mairon dancing from one shape to another as delicately as the wind in the trees while Aiwendil chased after him, sometimes on two feet, sometimes on four, sometimes on more.

Mairon opened his eyes and looked up. Aiwendil no longer wore his withered Istar form. His face appeared more ageless than aged and his body blended disparate features into an oddly harmonious and beautiful whole: antlers of deer, teeth of wolf, claws of raven, and deep dark eyes like a night-hunting owl. His only garment was a sort of kilt made of flowers, and his hair resembled trailing lichens.

He settled down in front of Mairon and gently took his right front paw between his hands. The lingering pain vanished and Mairon whined softly.

Mairon slept for days, or maybe weeks; time seemed to settle in Aiwendil’s domain like water in a still pool. Sometimes he woke to find small dishes of water or honey set beside his bed; sometimes Aiwendil sat beside him and sang and stroked his patchy fur while he drifted in and out of sleep.

One night he woke to find Aiwendil gone and the light of a full moon casting the bower in blue and black. He rose up into his human form and lay down on his stomach in Aiwendil’s bed.

He woke to sharp teeth clasped gently around the back of his neck.

_Are you strong enough?_

Mairon spread his legs and tilted his hips up. _Yes..._

Aiwendil knew, he always knew, exactly how much Mairon’s fragile body could take.


	4. Chapter 4

Several mornings later, Aiwendil rose from the bed and murmured, “A visitor comes.”

Mairon contracted into wolf form and fled back to his corner. Aiwendil would not bother to announce an animal visitor and few Secondborns were allowed on this land, so the visitor could only be an Elf, or something Mairon was even less eager to see.

He had barely reached his bed when he sensed the visitor approaching. Not an Elf, but a Maia with the ozone-and-roses stench of Aman hovering around him. Mairon whined softly.

“Peace,” Aiwendil murmured. “He will not harm you in my domain.”

A memory blossomed: Tulkas looming over him with his eyes burning and his enormous fists clenched. _They will give you to me, Hated One, and I will teach you humility._

Aiwendil’s mind stroked gently over his. _No._

Footsteps on the stones outside, and a familiar, smoke-roughened voice. “Radagast? Are you here?”

“You know I am," Aiwendil said. "Come in.”

The visitor pushed aside the trailing vines that covered the bower’s entrance. He had made his Istar shape appear younger rather than discarding it entirely, and underneath the perfume of Aman he still smelled like tobacco. Mairon wondered if restaurants in Tirion and Alqualondë had established smoking sections just for him, and Aiwendil’s amusement at that idea rippled soothingly through his mind.

“You look like yourself again,” Olórin said.

“You don’t,” Aiwendil replied.

Olórin laughed. “I tried on my old raiment and it didn’t fit anymore. Tell me, what have you been doing here all these years? I thought you would be the first to go home.”

“I have done my Lady’s work,” Aiwendil said. “Perhaps eighty years ago Thranduil asked me to come to this forest and aid him in protecting it. She agreed, and here I am.”

“You are happy here?” Olórin sat down in the woven willow chair next to Aiwendil’s bed and peered at him through the green-tinged light.

“I am as my Lady wishes me to be.”

“She may wish you otherwise soon. We have a problem, Radagast. A Silmaril and a Fëanorian are once again in proximity. I know you didn’t really pay attention to what happened in Middle-earth during the First Age, but--” he stopped abruptly.

“But what?”

“Radagast,” Olórin said softly, his electric blue eyes fixed on the far corner, “Is that who I think it is?”

Mairon shrank back against the wall and closed his eyes.

_He will not harm you._

_He’s stronger than you! You can’t stop him!_ Mairon’s breath came fast and short and his chest ached. If he lost this body it could be thousands of years before he regained enough strength to make a new one, if he ever did, or maybe they would force him into a body so they could chain him motionless and alone until he went mad--

 _This is my home. He will not harm you._ Aiwendil’s spiritual touch wrapped around Mairon’s body and smoothed away its panic responses. _Trust me._

“Thranduil told me he had regained physical form,” Olórin continued in a voice as cold as a snowmelt stream. He rose from the chair and took a step towards the corner. “But I did not expect to find you sheltering him.”

Aiwendil moved in front of Mairon. “You will harm no one in my home.”

“That is--”

“I know who he is, Olórin. You will not touch him. Sit down.”

“Do you know who he is? Truly? You may have seen what he did to this world, but I’ve seen the souls he sent to Mandos with his own hands! Some of them may never heal. Celebrimbor’s fëa is still catatonic. Námo granted his mother a special dispensation to visit him, and he might, maybe, recognize her, but no one’s really sure--”

 _I love you. I forgive you._ The last thing Tyelpë had said before Mairon ordered the Orcs to shoot.

“--should have found what was left of him after the war and brought it back to Valinor to stand trial--”

“But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t think there would be enough to justify the effort! But I should have known he would come back, he’s done it over and over again, he’s like a weed that just won’t die--”

“Weeds that just won’t die are my Lady’s creations. Leave him be, Olórin. Part of him was unmade, is that not enough?”

“He brought it on himself!”

Aiwendil sighed. “What would your Lady do?”

Olórin slumped back into the chair. “She would forgive him and plead for him, as She did for his master. But I am not so strong in mercy, Radagast. I can’t forgive him.”

“You do not need to forgive him. You need only respect my rights in my domain. Should we go elsewhere? I am not fond of Thranduil’s new halls, but we might talk more easily there.”

“No, no.” Olórin rubbed his eyes. “I am sorry, Radagast. I forgot myself. But should we really discuss this in front of him?”

“He told Thranduil of the Silmaril’s reappearance. You are only here because of him.”

Olórin looked back towards Mairon’s corner. “Why would he do that?”

“Why would he not? Thranduil is, by his own efforts, the authority over all that remains of ancient Middle-earth.”

Olórin shook his head. “Of all the Elves...do you know, the glamour he uses to make himself look like a Secondborn doesn’t cover his hair?”

“I had noticed, yes. If I recall correctly, the Quendi place great value in their hair.”

Long ago, Mairon had devoted entire days to perfecting the hair of his various forms. He preferred it straight and silky, either red or gold, but he'd come to Tyelpë silver-haired, and Aiwendil had once liked it rough and tangled, easy to grip. The memory of those claws against his scalp made him shiver. Now his hair fell out in clumps at the slightest touch. No one had pulled it in millennia.

"They do," Olórin said. "Thranduil more than most, along with the rest of his appearance. I remember once being obliged to wait for several hours while he dressed and decorated himself to greet me."

Mairon huffed a wolf-laugh. He had whiled away many boring hours at Dol Guldur by using his magic to spy on the wood-elves and their vain, dissolute king, entertaining himself and Khamûl with their petty dramas.

He missed Khamûl desperately. He missed all of his Nine; their absence felt like limbs torn away, but Khamûl had always been the closest to him in mind and spirit, the only good thing he took out of the nightmare of Númenor. Khamûl was bright silks and bitter philosophy, shining eyes and sarcasm sharp enough to shave glass. For thousands of years he had been the closest thing Mairon had to a friend, and then he was gone, gone in an instant along with everything Mairon had built and everything Mairon had been.

Aiwendil said something Mairon didn't hear, too absorbed in his memories, and then Olórin turned towards the entrance of the bower. "Our esteemed host has sent us a messenger."

Mairon pressed his body back against the wall and tried to make himself smaller. Spending the past few days in bed had been lovely, but also tiring, and the stress of Olórin's sudden appearance was draining what strength he had left. Another visitor would drain it further. 

A few minutes later a bearded Elf in blue jeans and a green flannel shirt brushed aside the curtain of vines and bowed to Olórin. "They're here, Holy One," he said in Sindarin. "My lord would appreciate it if you brought, um…" He glanced around the room and pointed to Mairon. "Him."

"Who is here?" Aiwendil asked. "And why does your lord want Mairon to see them?"

Olórin smiled triumphantly. "Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel," he said. "The One sent their souls home in new bodies."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion unwelcomed by all.
> 
> CN: panic attack, canonical animal suffering, ableist language.

Her face wasn't quite the same, built as it was from humanity alone, but it was unmistakable. The soul remade its remembered house.

"My name is Louisa Nightingale Smith," she said.

Mairon stared at the reincarnation of Lúthien Tinúviel and said the only thing he could think of. "You skinned my friend alive."

"The doctors told me that was just a nightmare," she whispered. "Did I really--oh God I am so sorry."

"He's a liar," Olórin said quickly, and shot a warning look at Mairon. “Don’t listen to him.”

"Is he lying about this?” she demanded. “He isn’t, is he?”

Olórin looked away. “No. You used his messenger’s skin to disguise yourself when you infiltrated the Enemy’s fortress.”

Louisa swallowed hard and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. “And I...I cut it off her while she was still alive?” 

“Yes,” Mairon hissed. “And then you left her to bleed to death. She was still alive when I found her, but I couldn't--there was nothing I could do. I told her I loved her and then I slit her throat. I don’t know where her spirit went after that.”

“Oh fuck," Louisa whispered. "I'm--"

“Your dog killed my wolves,” Mairon continued. “One of them had a fëa--that's like a human soul. I tried to send him West when his body bled to death at my feet, but I don’t know--”

“Stop!” Olórin snarled. “Your werewolves were an abomination! That fëa is better off where it is.”

“How do you know?" Mairon demanded. "Have you seen him in Mandos? Talked to him? Asked him how he feels about being stuck there?”

“Mandos holds thousands of your victims; how could I be expected to recognize--oh. Oh, of course. You truly earned your name, Abhorred." Olórin's luminous blue eyes bored into Mairon. "Before you forced it into the body of a beast you had warped with your vile sorcery, that fëa belonged to a Firstborn child, did it not? A Noldor boy with dark hair and blue eyes?"

“Yes, and before you assume anything, I didn’t kill him," Mairon snapped. "He died on the Great Journey. I found his fëa houseless in the hills near Angband.” Mairon had collected many wandering fëar in those days, for a wide variety of purposes, some of which were uncomfortable to remember. He used that particular fëa to create Draugluin, his first werewolf. Another friend dead because of Lúthien and Huan. _At least he didn't suffer like poor Carcharoth,_ Mairon thought. He would never forget how the great wolf had screamed for his dam as the Silmaril burned him alive from the inside.

Olórin opened his mouth to respond, but Thranduil spoke first, and his eyes shone with an icy, ancient hatred very familiar to Mairon. “I didn’t know you spent so much time in Mandos, Holy One. Am I allowed to ask you about my wife?”

“If I knew anything about your wife I would have told you already,” Olórin huffed. “Galadriel asked me to visit Celebrimbor because his mother refuses to speak to her, and Námo’s Maiar told me this child-fëa has been hovering around him since he arrived. No one knew why. I would suggest that Sauron’s victims are drawn to each other, but if that were true, Celebrimbor’s room would be very crowded--”

“Wait,” Louisa interrupted. “If you know what happened to this kid werewolf’s ghost, do you know what happened to--to the woman I--”

“Her name was Thuringwethil,” Mairon whispered.

"Thuringwethil," Louisa repeated, almost correctly.

“Her spirit returned to the Blessed Realm, and she repented her crimes and accepted a sentence of servitude under her Valie," Olórin said.

Marion sagged in relief. Thuringwethil had once served Yavanna, who (unlike her husband) was not known for imposing harsh punishments on disobedient Maiar. 

“Apparently I am unclear on how things work with you people,” Louisa said coldly. “I as good as murdered this woman, but she’s the criminal?”

“She betrayed her Valie and chose to serve the Great Enemy,” Olórin explained. "Merely expressing regret could not expiate her guilt."

Louisa sighed. “I have no idea what that means, but I don’t think it answered my question. Also, why do you think I’m some legendary hero? Nothing you’ve told me so far justifies that.” She crossed her arms and looked back and forth between Olórin and Thranduil.

“You only hurt bad people,” Mairon explained. "And you did things no one else ever could." _Like being the only elf who ever truly died. Too bad it didn't stick._

Olórin started to object, but Louisa cut him off with an imperious wave of her hand. “Thank you, that makes sense,” she said to Mairon. “And, look, I know it doesn’t mean much but...I wouldn’t have hurt your friends. This version of me, I mean.”

Mairon looked up at her and quickly looked away. Her eyes, even without the Maiarin light they once held, were much too familiar. 

“I hurt you too, didn’t I?” she asked softly.

“It’s ok." He didn’t look at her. “Things were different then. I was different.” Once, he would have been thrilled at the prospect of taking brutal revenge on the reincarnation of Lúthien Tinúviel, but now he couldn’t see any reason to make the effort. He was so tired, and the smell of Thranduil’s peppermint latte was making him nauseous. He wanted to go back to Aiwendil's bower and sleep for a year.

"Yes, do ask him what he would have done if he captured you back then," Olórin said. “He doesn’t look like much now, but he used to torture people to death for fun."

Mairon considered protesting that he never did anything for fun back then, he always had a goal in mind, but there was no point. His goals hadn't really been his at all. He looked down at the carpet instead. Thranduil redecorated his office for every season and somehow managed to make it elegant instead of tacky. This winter's theme was blue and silver, and Mairon wondered if Thranduil remembered whose colors those were. Surely he did. Elves loved nothing more than tales of heroic but pointless death.

"Is that why you're being so mean to him?" Louisa asked. "Because, I gotta say, from my perspective, you two are really not making a good impression."

Mairon looked up at her, startled. He would have been less surprised if Thranduil suddenly started defending him.

Olórin managed to look slightly chastened. "I apologize, my lady. I remember a very different creature from the one you see now. If you regain memories of your life as Lúthien, you will be less inclined to sympathize with him.”

"Will I?"

"Indubitably," Thranduil said. "Imagine Napoleon combined with Hannibal Lecter, and you'll have some idea of what he used to be."

Mairon looked back at the floor. He wanted to leave. He should leave. Would they let him, or was this a trap? Lúthien had caught him once before. Maybe they meant for her to catch him again. His fána was so weak that he could not hope to fight her or escape her, and then they would have him again, they could do whatever they wanted to him, they could take away the body he had barely been able to rebuild--his throat hurt and he couldn't breathe--he felt Huan's teeth cutting into his trachea--

“Hey, can you hear me?” Suddenly Louisa was crouched on the floor in front of him. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re not in any actual danger. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He tried to pull away from her, but the chair held him in place and he couldn’t remember how to change his shape. His heart pounded painfully.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she repeated. “This will pass. Focus on your breathing, ok? Breathe in: one...two...three...four. Breathe out: one...two...three...four. Again. One...two...”

He did as she said, and after a few minutes his heart slowed and he could breathe more easily. She wrapped her hands around his, and he realized with a sudden shock that hers were larger. He didn't think he would ever get used to wearing such a small fána.

“That’s good,” she said. “Would you like some water?”

He shook his head. He never ate or drank anything in Thranduil’s house.

“Ok,” she said. “Just keep breathing. I’m not the person you knew, ok? I’m not going to hurt you.” She gently squeezed his hands and went back to her chair.

“Just wait until you remember more,” Thranduil muttered. Something on his desk beeped and he looked down. “Your True Love is here.”

“My what? You mean Ben? We’ve been dating for six months, ‘true love’ is a bit premature.”

“You gave up immortality for him,” Olórin said.

“He must have been more impressive back then,” Louisa remarked, just as the door opened and Beren appeared.

“Hey! I’m plenty impressive now.” He looked exactly like Mairon remembered, except cleaner and wearing more plaid. He flumped into a chair and stretched his muddy boots towards Thranduil’s desk. Thranduil gritted his teeth but said nothing.

Louisa glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re back early.”

Beren shrugged. “A guy with antlers told me most of my thesis research was bullshit. Figured it was time to give up for the day.”

 _"Someone is too close to the owls,"_ Aiwendil had said when they arrived at Thranduil's mansion. _"I will be back soon, Precious."_

Beren son of Barahir, still making Mairon's life difficult.

“I told you most of your thesis research was bullshit," Louisa said.

“Yeah, but you don’t have antlers. Makes you less convincing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Did you at least find some owls?”

“One nest, but then the guy with antlers showed up and told me he’d tear my throat out with his teeth if I messed with it. He had really scary teeth too.” He turned to Thranduil. “You could have warned me about him, you know.”

“I told you not to disturb any animals,” Thranduil said. He took a long, slow sip of his latte. "You should have been more careful."

“Yeah, ok, maybe, but mentioning your terrifying cryptid forest guardian would have been nice, dude.”

“He’s really not dangerous as long as you don’t scare the animals,” Mairon said. "If you ask him nicely he might even help you." _And if you do scare the animals, he'll probably kill you, and what a terrible loss that would be_. Aiwendil might not loathe the Secondborn quite as intensely as Thranduil did, but he would not hesitate to use lethal force against any who threatened the _kelvar_ and _olvar_ under his protection.

Beren gave Mairon a skeptical look that quickly turned to concern. “Are you ok? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Mairon lied. The panic attack had mostly passed, but his chest still hurt and his whole body felt shaky.

“Don’t worry about him,” Thranduil said. “Or the, ah, 'forest guardian' either. You’re under my protection and they both know it.”

“Uh-huh.” Beren leaned forward and squinted at Thranduil. “Holy shit, what are you? I know that hair is too good to be human.”

Thranduil smiled, the first genuine smile Mairon had ever seen from him. “Why, thank you, Beren. I am one of the Firstborn."

“One of the what? And who’s Beren? My name is Ben...wait, this day is about to get weirder, isn't it? I think I’m gonna need a drink.”

“Certainly.” Thranduil leaned sideways and opened a desk drawer. “Wine or whiskey? I seem to recall that you prefer whiskey.”

“Dude, it’s ten o’clock in the morning. Are you serious--damn, is that the twenty year?”

“Seventy,” Thranduil said, pouring two fingers of amber liquor into a crystal glass. He stood up from his desk and brought it over to Ben. “I prefer the one hundred, but I’m afraid my last bottle is at my Tuscany estate.”

“Of course it is,” Ben muttered. “Thank you, Mr. O’Rourke.” He sipped and swore softly.

“Delightful, is it not?” Thranduil settled back at his desk and poured himself a glass as well, peppermint latte apparently forgotten.

“That’s one word,” Ben said. “I think this might be the second-best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Louisa snickered. Thranduil raised an eyebrow but did not comment.

“So what exactly is going on here?” Ben continued. “Let’s get to the weirdness.”

“They say they knew us in a past life,” Louisa said.

“Well, I never actually met you,” Olórin admitted. “But the songs of your deeds reached all the realms of Eä.”

“Songs?” Ben echoed. “What did we do that deserved songs?”

“You triumphed over the greatest evils of the age,” Olórin said. “Including him.” He nodded towards Mairon, who kept his eyes on the carpet. 

“Um,” Ben said. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but--”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Olórin interrupted. “And he was not always as you see him now.”

“He imprisoned you in his tower and fed your companions to his werewolves,” Thranduil added.

Ben looked over at Mairon. “Damn, dude. That’s pretty fucked up.”

“I’m sorry,” Mairon whispered. He would not think about what Melkor had done to him after Langon dragged him back to Angband. He would not.

“You know what?" Ben said. "I’m not going to hold grudges from a past life. We’re cool. Just keep the werewolves away from me, ok?”

“I don’t think there are any werewolves left in the world,” Mairon said. He pictured Draugluin keeping company with Tyelpë’s broken fëa and dug his crumbling nails into his palms.

"That's probably for the best," Ben continued. "So, 'Firstborn' and friends, why are you telling me and Lou about our past lives? Do you want something from us? Because I’m just here to study owls, not go on epic quests against evil or whatever.” He sipped his whiskey and looked back and forth between Olórin and Thranduil.

"We need you to retrieve a treasure," Olórin said. "A jewel like the one you once cut from the Dark Lord's crown."

"Like the one our _previous incarnations_ cut from the Dark Lord's crown," Louisa corrected firmly. "We are not the people you remember. We may have their souls, but we were shaped by different lives. We don't have the skills or abilities they had. You need to understand that."

"Also, point of order, there's no Dark Lord anymore, so who exactly do you want us to 'retrieve' this treasure from?" Ben crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Olórin and Thranduil.

"Wait," Mairon said. He saw the shape of their plan and could not believe it. "You can't mean to ask them to steal the Silmaril from Maglor. Do you have her magic cloak in one of your closets, Thranduil? Is Olórin going to teach her Songs of Power? Maglor is at least twenty thousand years old and he still has the strength of one born under the Trees, have you both forgotten that?"

"Yeah, what about all that stuff he just said?" Ben demanded. "You want us to fight some ancient superbeing for a shiny rock? No fucking way, dude. Go fight him yourself."

"A Silmaril is much more than a 'shiny rock'," Olórin said. "It is--"

"It is cursed!" Mairon interrupted. "The Jewels destroy anyone who possesses them! The one they stole from Melk--"

"Do not speak that name!" Olórin roared.

"Why not?" Mairon asked. He tried to smirk and hoped he wasn't visibly trembling. "Surely you're not still afraid of Him?"

"I was never afraid of him," Olórin growled.

 _Liar,_ Mairon thought. _You claimed you were afraid of me, once, and I was nothing next to Him._

"Then you were a fool," Thranduil said quietly. "You didn't live here during the Ages when the Valar left us to his mercy. I did, and I fear him still."

"You owe us a better explanation than that before you ask us to do anything, Mr. O'Rourke," Louisa said firmly.

Thranduil sighed. "I suppose we do. This will not be easy for you to believe, but long ago, before the sun and moon…"

His abbreviated chronicle of the First Age lasted until the setting sun reached the treetops outside the window. By the time he finished, Mairon could barely keep his eyes open, and Ben and Louisa kept nervously glancing at the door, then at each other, then back at the door. 

"Well, there you have it," Olórin said when Thranduil finally stopped talking. "Now you understand why it is so vital that we regain the Silmaril as soon as possible."

"Um, sure," Ben said. He licked his lips and his eyes flicked to the door again.

"This has been lovely," Louisa said. "But I'm playing a gig in town tonight and we should really get going. Maybe we can talk again later? We need some time to think. Thank you for the, um, hospitality, Mr. O'Rourke." She grabbed Ben's elbow and dragged him out the door so quickly he barely had time to put down his whiskey glass.

Thranduil and Olórin watched the door close behind them and then turned towards Mairon. 

"I should go too," he said, and left without looking either one of them in the eye. When he heard the door close behind him he crept silently back and listened.

“I should take him to Aman,” Olórin’s voice said, in Sindarin. “I do not have any chains, but I doubt he is powerful enough that I would need them.”

Mairon’s heart started to pound again. Olórin might not have chains with him, but chains would be waiting in Valinor.

Thranduil sighed and answered in the same language. “Have you ever seen Radagast angry? Genuinely, you-killed-a-deer-in-my-territory angry?”

“No, but if you are implying that he would be able to stop me from--”

“I've seen him dismember Secondborn hunters with his bare hands,” Thranduil interrupted. A bottle clinked against a glass. “He's absolutely terrifying when he sees something threatening his creatures. Yes, I know you have more raw power, but this forest is his territory and he has the Kementári’s favor. Those are not small strengths, Mithrandír.”

Olórin sighed heavily. “Indeed they are not, and he counts Sauron among his creatures and will protect him as such. I cannot take Sauron without fighting Radagast, which I do not wish to do.” A match hissed and tobacco crackled as it caught fire.

“Thank you for asking if you could smoke in my office,” Thranduil said dryly.

Olórin chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about them,” Thranduil continued. "Radagast and Mairon, I mean. They make an odd couple, or have I misinterpreted something?"

“Difficult as it may be to believe, they were close friends before Sauron chose to follow the Great Enemy,” Olórin said. "Maybe they were lovers too; I didn't know them very well back then. If you're asking if they're lovers now, I don't know that either. Before I visited Radagast yesterday I was unaware they had reconnected. Does Sauron stay there all the time?"

"No, he comes and goes. He has a car and enough magic to turn dry leaves into money. Sometimes he brings me useful information--which is why you're here. He's the one who found out about the Silmaril."

"So Radagast told me. Any idea how he learned of it?"

"None. Perhaps he smelled the blood on it. But getting back to my question: how did Radagast, protector of nature, come to be friends with Gorthaur the Cruel?"

"Aulë and Yavanna encourage their Maiar to mingle," Olórin said. His pipe crackled again. "They think of themselves and their people as a family. ”

“I see. Mairon served Aulë and Radagast served Yavanna, and they met at a garden party in the Springtime of the World. How romantic.”

Olórin laughed. "Something like that. I must confess myself surprised to hear you use his old name."

"He is not what he was, Mithrandír. If I thought he posed any threat to the world I would send him West myself."

"What about justice?"

"What about it? He lost part of his spirit, he spent thousands of years as a shadow, his physical body is so weak he can barely make it up my front stairs, and he commands not a single follower. What worse punishment could the Valar devise?"

 _They could take my mind and my fána,_ Mairon thought. _They could reduce me to a shadow again and shut me in a pit until the end of the world. They could cast me into the Void. They could--_

"Radagast said something similar, but I must admit I find myself suspicious," Olórin said, interrupting Mairon's spiraling thoughts.

"And I must ask you to trust us. Mairon is no threat to anyone--and if he becomes a threat, we will know, and we will take appropriate action."

"Both of you?"

Thranduil sighed. "Very well. _I_ will take appropriate action. But I doubt it will ever be necessary. Wizards and Elves and Dark Lords have no place in Middle-earth anymore. I am a businessman, you are a tourist, and Mairon is...irrelevant."

Behind the door, Mairon winced. He knew it was true, but it still hurt to hear.

"And what is Maglor?" Olórin asked.

"A vagrant who plays music for spare coins." The bottle clinked against the glass again. "And an 'ancient superbeing', I suppose. Tell me something: did the Valar explicitly forbid you from retrieving the Jewel yourself? Or are you seeking out proxies because it worked last time?"

Tobacco crackled. "I am not supposed to do anything that might cause Men to rethink their current assumptions about how the world works. We are not entirely forgotten, and Maglor knows how to recognize a Maia, or he did once. I am not so skilled a shapeshifter as to be confident that I could prevent him from knowing me for what I am, and I would rather not test my Song against his."

"Hmm. You know who is a skilled shapeshifter?"

"No. Absolutely not. I don't trust him, Thranduil."

"I was referring to Radagast."

"I thought he could only take animal shapes."

"So did I, until he showed up at one of my Halloween parties looking exactly like Queen Melian, nightingales and all. I spent the entire night expecting to get in trouble for sneaking into my own wine cellar."

"Oh my," Olórin chuckled. "Did Sauron come to this party of yours?"

"He was one of the nightingales. Which I didn't realize until my guests started complaining about a bird spitting fire at them."

Mairon smiled. That had been a fun night.

"I'm confused about something," Thranduil continued. "Why are the Valar so determined to take the Jewel away from Maglor? Why won't they grant him a pardon and let him bring it back to Aman? If their true objective is to keep the thing safely out of mortal hands, why must Maglor give it up?"

"The Silmaril itself rejected him the last time he touched it," Olórin said. "And it is likely he will kill to possess it again, thus further defiling himself."

Thranduil snorted. "Do the great and mighty Ainur normally defer to the judgment of inanimate objects?"

"The Silmarils are not ordinary objects," Olórin protested.

"Indeed not. I will tell you what I think, Mithrandír. I think the Valar desire the last Silmaril for themselves, and they sent you here to steal it for them, like the cowards they are. At least Morgoth had the balls to commit his own theft."

Mairon sucked in a breath. He'd long known that Thranduil held no love for the Valar, but it was still shocking to hear him say something so blasphemous.

"Those are dangerous words, Elf," Olórin intoned, and his anger weighed down the very air.

"I'll apologize if they prove me wrong." Thranduil's voice remained steady and cold, unintimidated by Olórin's crass display of power. "But back to business. Someone, presumably Maglor, stole the Jewel two weeks ago--without killing anyone in the process, I might add--and nothing in the local news suggests he's been caught. He's probably gone to ground somewhere far from mortal civilization, and I doubt we'll ever find him unless he does something stupid. You may have to go home empty-handed."

Maglor must have snatched the Silmaril the day after they met at the museum. Mairon was reluctantly impressed.

"This area is pretty far from mortal civilization," Olórin said. "Maybe he's closer than we think."

"Then he had better hope you find him before I do," Thranduil growled. "He owes me blood for my kin who died on his sword in Doriath."

"Psst!" someone hissed from down the hall.

Mairon looked over and saw Ben frantically beckoning him from the stairwell. He debated for a moment and then carefully made his way towards the stairs, using the thick carpet to muffle the sound of his cane.

"What were they talking about?" Ben whispered when Mairon reached him.

Mairon looked down the stairs and tried to breathe through a wave of vertigo. "They were talking about the Silmaril and where Maglor might have taken it."

"Maglor is the guy whose dad made the magic rock? I think I got that much out of their crazy-ass ancient aliens history lecture." He matched Mairon's slow pace down the stairs.

Mairon clenched the banister and laughed, a little hysterically. "Crazy-ass ancient aliens" might be the best description of the Noldor he had ever heard.

"What's the deal with this 'Silmaril' anyway?" Ben continued. "They talk about it like it's a nuclear weapon or something." 

"More like the most addictive drug ever made," Mairon said. "People become obsessed with it and it...changes them." 

"Great," Ben held the front door open for Mairon and followed him out into the cold, damp twilight. "You know, I really want nothing to do with these weirdos and their robbery plans. Why can't they just let the old guy have the thing his dad made?"

"Thranduil--Mr. O'Rourke--asked the same thing. The risk, I think, is that some human will kill him and take it, and eventually it will cause another war."

"You really think modern humans will fight a war over a rock?"

"Over this rock, absolutely."

"Great," Ben repeated. "So, um, was Lou really an elf princess in a former life?"

"Yes."

"I guess if I could believe it about anyone, she'd be the one," Ben said wistfully, just as Louisa emerged from the back of an elderly green van parked by the door.

She punched his shoulder. "I'm no princess in this life, buddy. Can we go back to town? This place is starting to creep me out, and I need to get ready for the show tonight."

"Yeah, good idea," Ben said, rubbing his shoulder. "Today has been too fucking much."

"Do you need a ride to town?" Louisa asked Mairon.

"No, thank you," he said. He could feel Aiwendil's presence in the woods just behind Thranduil's mansion and hoped he could get there without collapsing. He was so dizzy.

"You need some help, dude?" Ben asked.

"No, I'm ok--" he began.

Louisa gasped. "Ben? Is that, um…?"

Mairon felt Aiwendil's approach a moment before a big arm wrapped around his shoulders. He sagged against Aiwendil's side and almost sobbed in relief.

"That's him," Ben said.

"Wow," Louisa whispered, then visibly rallied herself. "Um, so, I'm singing at the brewery in town tonight; you're welcome to come, if you can look more, um…"

"Human?" Aiwendil rumbled. "Indeed I can. I would very much enjoy hearing you sing again."

"Again?" she squeaked.

"I heard the song you sang before the Lord of Mandos, and never have I forgotten it. We will come to hear you, if Mairon is well enough."

"I'm mostly just singing old folk and country songs, nothing to humble the gods this time," she said with a nervous laugh. "Is, um, is Mairon ok? Does he need a doctor?"

"He needs rest," Aiwendil said. "No mortal doctor could help him. When do you sing?"

"Eight tonight," she said. "At the Green Flower Brewery; it's the only one in town."

"I know it. We will be there, if we can. Thank you for inviting us, Lady Lúthien." He turned to Ben. "If you have questions about the owls, I can answer them. There is no need for you to disturb their nests."

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. "Right, yeah, I really didn't mean to scare them. I'm trying to learn more about how they teach the owlets to hunt, you know, raptors aren't generally considered to be social, but--ow, Lou, ok, we're going."

Mairon heard their van start up and drive away, but he kept his eyes closed and his face pressed into Aiwendil's side. "Thank you," he mumbled. "I was about to collapse."

"I know," Aiwendil murmured. "May I carry you?"

Usually Mairon would protest that he could walk, if only to hang onto some useless bit of pride, but he felt too worn out to bother. "Please."

Aiwendil scooped him up like a child. Mairon nuzzled into his shoulder and fell asleep almost instantly.

He woke to Aiwendil's lips brushing his neck. "Mmm," he murmured. "Keep doing that."

Aiwendil smiled against his skin. "Do you wish to hear Lúthien sing tonight?"

"Fuck me first," Mairon whispered.

"Your skin is too fragile right now, and you know it," Aiwendil said. "If you rest all day tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow night you will be strong enough."

Mairon sighed. He did know, but he so badly wanted. "Tomorrow night?"

"As soon as you are strong enough," Aiwendil whispered in his ear, "I will do anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Anything at all, Precious." He kissed Mairon's neck again and pulled away when Mairon reached for him. "Do you wish to go?"

"Oh, I suppose." Mairon clambered out of the bed, swayed for a moment, and sat back down. "I think you'll have to carry me to the car."

"Gladly."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some singing, some reminiscing.  
> CN: traumatic memories, canon-typical violence, dead babies.

An hour or so later they arrived at the Green Flower Brewery, a warm and welcoming place with a distinctively hobbity ambiance. The hostess, also distinctively hobbity, ushered them past a dozen crowded tables to a booth by the enormous fieldstone fireplace and asked if they wanted drinks. Aiwendil ordered the seasonal ale and Mairon, reluctantly, asked for water. Alcohol reduced his already limited ability to maintain his fána. When he was well-rested he could manage one drink, but not after such a trying day, and especially not if he wanted to be strong enough for Aiwendil by the next night.

He twined his fingers with Aiwendil's under the table and shared a memory from his room on Almaren. His current fána wasn't quite so flexible, but that wasn't the point.

Aiwendil responded with a memory involving a huge lily pad and Illuin's light caressing Mairon's naked eäla as he slowly clothed himself in petal-soft skin and tangled dark hair. Aiwendil always had preferred making love outdoors.

Beren appeared mere minutes after their drinks. He slid into the other side of the booth uninvited, a beer in one hand and a guitar case covered in stickers in the other. "So this is you looking human?" he said to Aiwendil. "Not bad, dude."

"You may call me Radagast," Aiwendil told him.

"Ok," Beren said. "Radagast. So, um, what's your opinion on Mr. O'Rourke and his weirdo friend and their jewel heist plot?"

"Were I in your position, I would tell them to--Precious, what is that colorful phrase the proprietress of this establishment is so fond of?"

"Fuck the fuck off," Mairon supplied.

"Yes, that's it. I would tell them to fuck the fuck off. You and Lúthien played your part in the tragedy of the Silmarils long ago. There is no need for you to become involved with them again. If Olórin wishes to retrieve the last one, he is capable of doing so himself."

"Yeah, that's about what I was thinking," Ben said. The door opened and he glanced towards it. "Speak of the devil, here they are."

Mairon shrank further into the corner of the booth.

Ben narrowed his eyes at him. "You're really afraid of them, aren't you? Have they done something to you?"

"Not yet," Mairon whispered.

"Thranduil knows I would destroy him if he harmed you," Aiwendil said. "And Olórin will not risk attention from mortal authorities. You are safe here, Precious."

"You two are adorable," Ben said. "Maybe they won't...never mind, here they come."

Whispers trailed Thranduil through the room. Even with the glamour that dulled his skin and softened his features, he was stunningly handsome.

"You came!" he said to Aiwendil when he and Olórin reached their booth. "It's been a long time since I saw you in this form."

"It is not my favorite," Aiwendil said. "But it serves."

Thranduil and Olórin completely blocked the booth, and Mairon's lungs seemed to shrink. Aiwendil gently squeezed his hand and pressed reassurance into his mind.

"This place is incredible," Olórin remarked, looking around at the cozy, low-ceilinged room. "Almost like being back in the Shire."

"The owners are directly descended from Samwise Gamgee," Thranduil said. "As is about half the town."

Olórin chuckled. "He and Rosie were quite prolific, weren't they? Hard to believe it's been so long."

"Indeed," Thranduil said. "Tell me, did Samwise truly sail to Aman after his wife died? So rumor had it, but I thought the last ship had long departed by then."

"He did," Olórin said. "And you of all people should know that the last ship has not departed yet."

Thranduil sighed. "If my wife is reborn, I will sail. For no one else, not even my son, will I accept the Valar's hospitality."

Ben rolled his eyes. "You people. I gotta help Lou get set up. I have no idea why she dropped out of opera school to do this, but y'all are damn lucky she did. Enjoy the show." He slid out of the booth and sauntered towards the tiny stage in the far corner of the room.

Five seconds into Louisa's first song, Mairon knew he shouldn't have agreed to come. Her voice held only the faintest hint of its ancient magic, but it was still powerful enough to make his bones ache.

_They tell me of a place far beyond the skies  
They tell me of a home far away  
Yes, they tell me of a land where no storm clouds rise  
Oh, they tell me of an uncloudy day_

Uncountable time fell away, and Mairon saw Aiwendil and Ilmarë lounging on the sparkling sand of a long-drowned beach and watching tiny, brightly colored trilobites scurry over their hands.

But that was before--before--

_Did you think to refuse Me, little spirit? There are none who can._

Mairon pressed his face into Aiwendil's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut. Aiwendil's arm wrapped around him and held him close, but nothing could hold back the tide of memory that Louisa's soul-shaking voice brought forth.

_No wealth no land no silver no gold  
Nothing satisfies me but your soul_

"Perfectly made as always, Lieutenant. Now give Me your hand, I wish to test it."

_Have you seen the ghost of John?  
Long white bones with the skin all gone  
Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on?  
Wouldn't it be chilly with no skin on?_

"Hurts…"

"Thuri--I'm sorry--"

"Not...your fault...please, Precious..."

"I love you. Close your eyes."

_Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord  
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored  
He has loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword  
His truth is marching on_

"Your lies shall earn you no forgiveness from me."

"Eönwë--"

"I can see his poison in you still. You will never be free of him. Would you have me bring you to Valinor, that you might stain the blessed shores with your unclean spirit?"

"I will accept judgment--"

"You will lie and beg and repent falsely, just as he did. Get thee gone, Abhorred."

_A man of riches  
May claim a crown of jewels  
But the King of Heaven  
Can be told from the prince of fools  
By the mark where the nails have been_

Tyelpë stood on the steps of the main house of the Mírdain with Curufin's sword in his hands and Fëanor's rage in his eyes. Around them the city burned and the Orcs howled, and Mairon felt Melkor's hands on his shoulders.

_Westering home and a song in the air  
Light in the eye and it's goodbye to care  
Laughter o' love and a welcoming there  
Isle of my heart my own land_

Mairon huddled in a corner of his cell, sick from the rocking of the ship and desperately wishing he could wash Ar-Pharazȏn's foul touch from his skin. "I will destroy him," he muttered to himself over and over again. "I will drown his entire Valar-blessed race in blood!"

_If I look hard enough into the setting sun  
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes_

Mairon looked into the Palantír, into the eyes of Isildur's heir, and he knew his time was over. He would never see his ring again, and the wind would come from the West and blow him away.

Louisa finally fell silent, and the roar of applause knocked Mairon back into the present. He felt Aiwendil's shock and sorrow and realized with horror that he must have shared everything.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Aiwendil's tear-soaked shoulder.

Aiwendil squeezed him gently and pressed comfort into his mind. _If I had known Thuringwethil was your friend, I would have told you her spirit came home. She was restored to our Lady's favor long ago._

_I miss her._ He remembered Thuri's squeaky laugh, her soft fur, the way she always knew all the Angband gossip and regaled him with it while he polished rust from her iron claws. _It wasn't always awful, then. He wasn't even always awful, until they locked Him away and drove Him mad._

_I know, Precious._

Other memories intruded. Stumbling through the ruined corridors of Angband after his failed attempt to surrender. Down and down, knowing what he would find but compelled to see it anyway. Telling himself he was looking for survivors, even though he knew there were none. Passing more and more dead Orcs the further down he went. Arriving at last at the place they had died trying to protect.

Far away he heard Thranduil asking what was wrong with him.

He saw huge doors blasted inwards; black and red blood splattered across the wolves and wolfriders he had painted so long ago. Inside, more dead Orcs, more blood, and row after row of empty cribs. He saw the Orc who had been his secretary since before the first sunrise, almost unrecognizable under hundreds of cuts, sprawled in front of a pile of tiny corpses.

Distantly, he felt Aiwendil's warm arms picking him up; he heard Louisa frantically apologizing, strange voices asking if they should call an ambulance, Thranduil issuing orders. He must have caused a scene, drawn attention to himself; that was bad, very bad, too many people already knew--

_You are safe, Precious. Sleep._ Gentle pressure on his mind, and then nothing.

"I'm so sorry!" Lou repeated desperately as she followed O'Rourke and his bizarre friends out to the parking lot. "Sometimes my voice affects people in weird ways, but no one's ever reacted like that before!"

"Do not blame yourself," the cryptid-turned-man told her. "I should have known better than to bring him."

Despite the shock of the whole situation, she couldn't help but notice that he had the most incredible bass voice she had ever heard. It rumbled down to her bones.

"Everybody back inside!" O'Rourke called from somewhere behind her. "Rest of the night's on me if you all get back in there _now!"_

The crowd fled, and she and Ben were left alone in the parking lot with…she didn't know what these people were. O'Rourke looked inhumanly beautiful in the moonlight; next to him, the cryptid held his unconscious little friend like a baby, and the third weirdo just looked annoyed by the whole situation.

The cryptid shifted his friend in his arms and Louisa thought she saw shadows moving around the small man's body; little pieces of darkness clinging to his clothes and hair. Something about the way they were moving struck her as almost... worried? She rubbed her eyes and quickly looked away.

"So," Ben said. "What the fuck just happened?"

The cryptid sighed. "Lúthien's voice affected Mairon more strongly than I anticipated--"

"My _name_ is _Louisa!"_ She felt like she was about to cry. "I am _not_ who you think I am!"

"But you--" the other weirdo started to say.

"Have had enough stress for one day," O'Rourke interjected smoothly. "Do you two have a place to stay in town?"

"Um, yes," Ben said.

"Good. Go get some rest; my people will contact you in the morning." He turned away and said something to the others in a language that sounded like nothing Lou had ever heard before.

She grabbed Ben's arm and dragged him across the parking lot to her van. Her hands were shaking and she swore furiously when she dropped the keys on the gravel, and again on the floor of the van.

"Lou? Are you--"

"I'm fine!" She finally got the key into the ignition and muttered, "Thank you, thank you," when the van started on the first try.

"Hotel?" Ben asked as she started to pull out of the parking lot.

"Fuck no," she said. "We are going back to the city _right fucking now,_ and we are never going to have anything to to do with those freaks ever again."

"Sounds good," he said. "Are you sure you're ok to drive? You seem kinda shook up."

"I'm fine. Look up directions to the freeway."

"But--"

_"I am fine."_

"Ok, ok. Take the next left."

She squinted into the darkness. "Why doesn't this fucking town have streetlights? Or even reflective street signs?"

"Phone says turn right in 250 feet and it's a straight shot to the freeway," Ben said.

"Is there even a street there? I can't fucking tell, because I can't see the street signs, because apparently we're lost in the past!" She saw Ben wince and added, "Sorry, I'm just kind of freaked out right now. Didn't mean to be so loud."

"Your voice is amazing, babe. But yeah, kinda intense in a small space."

"Sorry," she repeated. "Ok, here it is. Pass me a water bottle?"

Three hours later, all the pieces fell together in her mind and she had to pull over.

"Babe?" Ben mumbled sleepily. "Are we home?"

"No, I just...I think I know what they were talking about, and I, I don't understand, Ben, it's impossible, but--"

"Hey, hey, slow down," Ben said. "What do you mean, you know what they were talking about?"

She took a deep breath and tried to gather her speeding thoughts. "Do you remember the night we met? When you came to my recital?"

"I'll never forget it."

"Do you remember the aria I sang?"

"Umm…it was very pretty?"

She sighed. "It's from a series of operas called the Jewel Cycle--"

"Wait, like the jewel those weirdos wanted us to steal?"

"Exactly. The operas are based on an obscure mythology--it's older than Babylon and the ancient aliens people love it--and everything they told us is in there. Everything, Ben. The names, the things they say we did, the magic rocks, everything. You remember O'Rourke saying he was one of the Firstborn?"

"Yeah?"

"The Firstborn are a magical pre-human race, the earliest known example of that concept, and most of these myths are about them fighting wars against an evil god who stole three jewels from their king."

"And we stole one of them back?"

"Yeah, but it didn't work out well for us, or our family, or our entire country. The little guy wasn't kidding about the jewels being cursed."

"Speaking of him, is there anything in this opera about what they said he did to me?"

"Yeah. The aria I sang that night? Was the part where I rescue you from him, after I tell him I'm going to tear his spirit out of his body if he doesn't give me the key to his tower."

"Damn, no wonder he was scared of you."

"But that would mean he's Sauron, and I just can't see--"

"Wait, _Sauron?_ I know that name. Isn't he some version of Satan?"

"Kind of," she said. "He's a secondary villain in the Jewel Cycle and the main villain in other stories from the same mythology. He's...a nasty piece of work. Or he was."

"That's what they kept saying, but yeah, I wasn't seeing it either."

"This can't be real," Lou muttered. "I don't know what the fuck their game is, but they are not for real."

"The dude with the antlers, though," Ben said. "You _saw_ him, babe, just like I did. No way was that a costume. And O'Rourke--I knew there was something off about him the first time I met him, and so did you, you said so."

"Well, yeah, but I thought he was just a sketchy ultra-rich psychopath, not some mythological creature!"

"It makes sense, though, in a weird way. Like, you should have seen how fucking pissed the guy with the antlers looked when he thought I was too close to the owls. If I'd been any kind of real threat to them I'm absolutely certain he would have killed me--and O'Rourke was just not concerned. Like having a murder-happy deer-man wandering around is totally normal. For a human that makes no sense, but if he's an ancient mythological creature himself…"

She frowned. "You know, I remember reading something about how the locals see O'Rourke's land as sort of a forest version of the Bermuda Triangle."

"Yeah," Ben said. "The desk clerk at the hotel told me a lot of people have disappeared up there, and whenever someone asks O'Rourke about it, he says the backcountry is always dangerous and his property is clearly marked, so people who trespass and don't come back only have themselves to blame."

"Well that's suspicious," she said. "Also creepy as fuck."

"He's a creepy dude," Ben said. "And he's rich enough to get away with pretty much anything."

"So where does that leave us?" she asked. "We don't want to do what they want, but who knows what they could get away with doing to us if we say 'no' to them? So far they've been nice enough, but even if they really believe what they told us about our past lives, I don't see them responding well to refusal."

"Yeah," he said. "So what do we do?"

She stared out into the dark beyond the van's windows. "The last of the Firstborn king's sons is still alive, he has the jewel, and they want us to steal it from him because they don't want to confront him themselves. They're afraid of him."

"Babe?"

"We need to find him. We need to find Maglor."

Maglor sat in his tent and stared at the Silmaril. He had been staring at it for days, not eating or sleeping, just watching the light of the Trees shimmer in its depths.

"What now, my brothers?" he whispered in Quenya. "Where did you go? Do you truly wander the Everlasting Dark, or were you gathered to Mandos? Or do you linger houseless somewhere in this world?"

The Silmaril gave him no answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent way too long trying to decide which songs to use for this chapter. Except for the last one, they're traditional songs with many versions by many artists, but these are the versions I was thinking of.
> 
> Uncloudy Day: https://youtu.be/wvq0yaeRSpU  
> 
> 
> O Death: https://youtu.be/ehFINQKctq0  
> 
> 
> Ghost of John (sung by kids, for extra creepiness): https://youtu.be/fsc_mde858A  
> 
> 
> Battle Hymn of the Republic: https://youtu.be/v4N2lIFKWgc  
> 
> 
> By the Mark: https://youtu.be/vv7cO01SXBM  
>  Westering Home: https://youtu.be/6pRG4HbP43s  
> 
> 
> Paint it, Black: https://youtu.be/5wCUlPNlQuA


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this, I swear! I even have the ending written. But getting there may take a while, especially once school starts (first grade sucked the first time, and now I must endure it again, alas).

Thranduil watched Ben and Louisa's van speed out of the parking lot and sighed. "I'm afraid we've given them too much of a scare. I'll send someone to her apartment in the city in a few days."

"She is unlikely to be reassured by that," Aiwendil said. He shifted Mairon's unconscious body in his arms and looked around the crowded parking lot. "I do not wish to impose, but I am unable to operate the machine we used to get here."

"I'll give you a ride and my people can pick up Mairon's car tomorrow," Thranduil said. "Although I would rather those shadows stayed here."

"They are harmless," Aiwendil assured him. "But it would be best if I took him back to my home. Waking in your halls would be distressing for him."

"He truly fears me that much?" Thranduil asked.

"He is unused to his current state of being," Aiwendil said softly. "Many things distress him, that would not have before."

Olórin took a step closer to Aiwendil and stopped when the other Maia backed away. "How long since he rebuilt a fána?" he asked.

"Forty-three years of the Sun," Aiwendil said. His hair rippled in the still air and his coat expanded into something like a large cloak, which he carefully wrapped around Mairon and the shadows clinging to him. 

"And when did he find you?" Olorin asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I found him not long after his...defeat. He accompanied me as a shade for all the Ages between."

Olórin looked stunned. "Are you truly telling me that Sauron's spirit followed you for that long? Why?"

"What else would he have done?"

"Oh, I don't know," Thranduil said. "Haunt unpleasant places, scare human children, whatever fallen Dark Lords do."

"There are only two fallen Dark Lords, and one of them is gone from this world," Aiwendil pointed out. "Hardly enough to create a pattern of behavior."

"I suppose," Thranduil said. He tapped a car key against the rings on his left hand. "Radagast, what exactly are those shadows?"

"They are the smallest of my kin who followed the Great Enemy in the beginning. Mairon is still their lord."

Thranduil quickly stepped back.

Aiwendil sighed. "They are more mischievous than malevolent now, and they will do you no harm. Unless, of course, you attempt to do harm to their lord. But they would not be alone."

"Just get in the car, Holy One," Thranduil muttered, unlocking something big, silver, and expensive. Aiwendil carefully folded himself and Mairon into the backseat, wrinkling his nose at the leather seats, and Olórin joined Thranduil in the front. They drove back to the estate in awkward silence.

When Ben and Louisa finally reached their apartment (Ben had taken over driving after Louisa's revelation left her too shaken), Louisa immediately started digging through their double-stacked bookshelves. 

"Babe, why don't we go to bed and try to figure shit out tomorrow?" Ben suggested around a massive yawn. "It's almost 3am."

"Hold on," Louisa muttered. "I know they're here somewhere--fuck, we need more bookshelves--here they are!" She pulled out two huge art books, hurried into the kitchen, and flipped through them until she reached the images she wanted.

_ "Lúthien Before Morgoth, _ by Artemisia Gentileschi," Ben read. "Morgoth is the evil god they were going on about, right? Why is he wearing those stripy poofy things?"

Louisa rolled her eyes. "She painted them in clothes from her own era."

"I'm glad I didn't live back then. Pretty sure I couldn't have pulled off candy-striped balloon shorts."

"Are you kidding? You'd be the best-dressed dumbass in Renaissance Rome. Now look at this one."

"Thanks, I think.  _ Beren and Felagund in the Dungeons of Thû, _ by Gustavé Doré. Is that me?"

"Yup.That's you, and that's Felagund--he was a Firstborn king--not the same one who made the Silmarils; they had a lot of kings--and he'd made an oath to your father, so he left his kingdom to help you retrieve the Silmaril, which you needed because my father wouldn't let us get married unless you gave him one, because he assumed you'd die trying--"

"Wait, what? O'Rourke didn't say anything about your father wanting me dead--"

"--and here's the werewolf that was supposed to kill you, but Felagund killed it--"

"--with his hands and teeth, yeah, I remember that part. Epically badass." He flipped back a page and winced at an image of twelve men cowering before a horror on a dark throne. "So that's Thû, creator of werewolves, terror of elves and men, also known as the little guy who passed out because you sang too hard."

"I hope he's ok," Louisa said. "Even if he really was Thû back then, he seems so scared and sad now."

Mairon sensed the shadows first, chittering softly and pressing against him. Worried. Looking for reassurance.  _ I'm ok, _ he told them, and reached out a weak spiritual limb to comfort them.

"Precious," Aiwendil murmured from somewhere nearby. "I brought you home. How do you feel?"

Mairon kept his eyes closed and slowly passed his awareness over his fána. "Not strong enough," he sighed. "Maybe tomorrow night."

He could feel Aiwendil's soft smile. "Maybe the night after. You had a very bad shock. You've been asleep for three days."

Mairon sat up and instantly regretted it. The bower seemed to spin around him, green walls pulsing unevenly and the floor falling away and then lurching back towards him. He slumped back down and grasped Aiwendil's hand. "Three days? What happened? Have they found the Silmaril yet?"

"Not yet," Aiwendil said. "Olòrin believes Maglor may be hiding somewhere nearby, but Thranduil has been unable to locate him." 

"How hard has he been trying?" Mairon asked. "And do you think he would tell Olórin if he did find him? Thranduil wants revenge for Doriath, and Olórin will stop him from getting it if he can."

"Will he? I suspect Olórin's purpose here is to bring the Silmaril back to Valinor regardless of cost."

"Thranduil said as much," Mairon said. He closed his eyes again. "Called the Valar cowards and thieves. I thought Olórin was going to smite him."

Aiwendil chuckled. "You eavesdropped on them?"

"Of course I did. They wouldn't say anything interesting with me just sitting there."

Aiwendil gently cupped Mairon's face in one huge hand and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "Always so curious, my Precious." 

Mairon leaned into Aiwendil's touch and sighed. "I know I'm not strong enough for more--but you could--"

Aiwendil slid into the bed behind Mairon and wrapped both fána and ëala around him. "Go back to sleep, Precious. You'll be stronger when you wake."

"Strong enough?"

Aiwendil kissed his thin hair. "Maybe."

Louisa had never tried to track someone down before. She remembered that Maglor was described as a musician in the Jewel Cycle, so she started by looking through local music sites and groups for mentions of recent disappearances, but found nothing.  _ Maybe he's been busking,  _ she thought after several frustrating hours. _ It'd be a long way down from Firstborn prince and one of the greatest musicians in mythology, but maybe he wants to keep a low profile without giving up music. _

Information on street musicians was scarce, but Louisa eventually stumbled upon a local subreddit about them, and when she scrolled back through several weeks of posts, she finally found what she was looking for.

_ Does anyone know what happened to that really gorgeous tall guy who's usually around the beaches? I haven't seen him in almost three weeks. _

_ Bingo, _ she thought.

_ Saw him at the Green Hill farmer's market about a month ago. _

Green Hill was a trendy neighborhood full of old trust fund hippies and young people with high-paying tech jobs and socially responsible sentiments. Exactly the kind of place a busker might go if he wanted to stock up on money before leaving town.

_ But where would he have gone? _ Louisa wondered. Somewhere he could be completely alone with his recovered treasure, presumably. Somewhere the people trying to find the Silmaril wouldn't think to look; somewhere he was unlikely to run into random humans who might see it and try to take it from him. Somewhere wild and undeveloped. 

The nearest true wilderness to the city was O'Rourke's land, so that might be a good place to start.  _ Or would it? _ Thinking back on the billionaire's tale of the First Age, Louisa thought he'd seemed angry when he spoke of Maglor and his brothers. Furious, even. No, Maglor would avoid O'Rourke if he knew who O'Rourke really was...but did he?  _ And what if me and Ben do find Maglor? Will he help us, or will he think we're trying to steal the Silmaril and attack us?  _ Louisa pushed her laptop away and sighed. She was getting nowhere.

Someone knocked on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The arts, approximately:
> 
> Esther before Ahasuerus (Artemisia Gentileschi)
> 
> [ ](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gentileschi,_Artemisia_-_Esther_before_Ahasuerus_-_c._1628%E2%80%931635.jpg#/media/File:Gentileschi,_Artemisia_-_Esther_before_Ahasuerus_-_c._1628%E2%80%931635.jpg)
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/nine17com/4027393266)  
> 


End file.
